


i'm breathing in the chemicals.

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemies to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Recreational Drug Use, Sort of at least, Underage Drinking, allusions to past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles Stilinski did not like Isaac Lahey.  This was an indisputable fact, one that had existed from the very first time Stiles had laid eyes on the guy and one that wasn't bound to change anytime soon.</p><p>Or so he thought.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm breathing in the chemicals.

**Author's Note:**

> so originally, I sat down to work on a Scisaac story I had... and then this happened. And I regret nothing. I hope you lovely readers enjoy. <3
> 
> Title from Radioactive by Imagine Dragons, because naming stories is difficult.

Stiles Stilinski did not like Isaac Lahey. This was an indisputable fact, one that had existed from the very first time Stiles had laid eyes on the guy. It'd been on the second day of classes and he'd been waiting for Scott to finish up his first Intro to Biology lecture and when Scott had come out of the classroom, there'd been a tall guy with messy blonde hair striding beside him, his arm slung around Scott's shoulder in an overtly familiar way, laughing like he'd known Scott for years and years rather than an hour and a half. 

Sure, it may have petty, but Stiles hadn't liked him from that first glance and that wasn't bound to change anytime soon, if ever. 

He didn't like Isaac's attempts at champagne-dry wit, the fact that every word out of his mouth was pure snark, the fact that he seemed to own only v-necks. He didn't like his ridiculously disheveled curls or the stupid scarves he was constantly wearing (temperature be damned) and he especially didn't like the way he smirked at nearly everyone who walked by like they were a conquest waiting to happen. 

In fact, if Stiles had to take a test, where the only question he had to answer to pass was “name one thing you like about Isaac Lahey,” he would fail miserably. 

The problem was that Scott liked Isaac; Scott liked everyone and the feeling was almost always mutual, but Isaac wasn't just a mere acquaintance. He'd become one of Scott's friends, one of his close friends, within days of that first Intro to Bio class and it was solely because of his friendship with Scott that Stiles managed to put up with him. Sure, they snapped at each other and sent glares at each other whenever the three of them were crammed into Scott's dorm room to study (or, more realistically, to play video games) but whenever Stiles felt the (common) urge to punch the smug smirk off Isaac's face, he counted backwards from forty and went to his happy place, where Isaac Lahey didn't exist, or where he at least hadn't taken Biology with Scott. 

But though he did his best to avoid being alone with Isaac (not because he was afraid of what he'd say but because he was afraid of how Scott would react to what he said), his luck was bound to run out eventually and when it did, it ran out all at once.

Once they finished freshmen year, Stiles and Scott moved into an apartment and their parents were barely out the door before Scott suggested they have a housewarming party. One thing led to another and by eleven, people were spilling out onto the balcony and sitting on people's laps and Scott was right in the center of it all, perched in the middle of the raggedy couch they'd gotten from Goodwill, in the midst of a Call of Duty match with a girl Stiles barely recognized. There was a lot of alcohol flowing and there was cigarette smoke drifting in from the balcony and the room was starting to look a little hazy. Stiles was leaning against the wall by their bedrooms and he could hardly hear himself think over all the inane chatter and laughter bombarding him from every direction. By his fourth beer, it had evolved into a full on assault on his senses and he could feel his chest tightening up, his lungs heaving against his ribcage. He recognized the symptoms all too well and before he went into a full blown panic attack in the middle of the party, he shoved his way through the crowd, feeling an ounce of relief seep into his body once he reached the safe haven of his bedroom. 

Well. It _should_ have been a safe haven but by the time he realized that his room wasn't empty, he'd already shut the door behind him and venturing back out into the suffocating mass simply wasn't an option. Isaac was lying on his bed, long legs stretched out, one arm dangling off the bed. Even with the window open, the room smelled acridly sweet and as he watched, Isaac's arm came back into view and he had a lit joint between his fingers. 

“Hi,” he said, taking a drag. Moments later, he exhaled smoke through his flared nostrils and he looked so effortlessly pretentious that Stiles really wanted to just smack him across the face. 

“What the fuck are you doing in my bed?” he huffed instead, stomping around the boxes he hadn't opened yet, only managing to trip over one on his journey from the door to his bedside. Isaac didn't even turn to look at him; his gaze was firmly fixed on the ceiling, like he was reading something only he could see on the blank white stucco.

“I'm taking a break from the party,” he finally said, the words leaving his mouth slow as syrup. “There were way too many people out there.” 

“Why didn't you use Scott's bedroom?” he groaned because while he could totally relate to what Isaac had said, his bedroom was supposed to be his happy place, the place he went to when he needed to focus or hide or jerk off and Isaac didn't fit into any of those functions. 

“It was... already occupied,” he replied, winking like a cartoon character and Stiles rolled his eyes because _seriously_ , who actually said shit like that? This was supposed to be a good night for him, hell it was supposed to be a _fun_ night; he'd planned on getting a little bit drunk, on maybe kissing a few people once the alcohol removed the (albeit few) inhibitions he had, but apparently, his plan had meant fuck all. The night was turning into a goddamn disaster and to make things worse, the longer he stood by the side of his bed, the more his legs wobbled. Since Isaac showed absolutely no sign of moving anytime soon, he sighed and muttered _fuck's sake_ as he sat down on the edge of his mattress, slapping at Isaac's denim-clad knee with more force than was probably necessary. 

“Move over,” he said and if anyone would have told him even three months ago that he'd be voluntarily lying in a bed with Isaac Lahey, for _any_ reason, he would have laughed in their face.

“Why?” Isaac asked, propping himself on his elbows, the joint stuck between his lips. 

“'Cause it's my damn bed and I want to lay down, so move the fuck over,” Stiles snapped and after a moment where Isaac didn't even blink, he finally shrugged and slid over so that his right leg was dangling over the edge of the bed, which gave Stiles plenty of room to sprawl. The joint between Isaac's pink lips was no more than a nub by the time Stiles got comfortable and after he took one last, deep draw from it, he dropped it into the half-empty glass of water that was sitting on Stiles' nightstand.

“Are you fucking serious?” he squawked, staring at the ashes that were swirling in the water and Jesus, that was just fucking _gross._ He was making Isaac dump that out before he left and he was _really_ considering the option of literally kicking the dude off his bed. 

“I'll share the next one,” Isaac muttered, rustling around in the pocket of his jeans and when he withdrew his hand, he was holding another joint and a cheap plastic lighter. 

“Dumbass,” Stiles hissed under his breath but regardless, even though there were literally hundreds of other people he would have gotten high with before Isaac, he wasn't about to pass up free weed because hey, free weed. Isaac lit up the second joint and stole the first pull before he passed it over to Stiles, who gratefully took a deep drag, flooding the smoke into his lungs, before he handed it back. For a long stretch of time, there was no conversation and Stiles was beyond grateful for the relative silence. 

“It helps with my panic attacks,” Isaac said eventually, smoke drifting from his mouth and the change in the tone of his voice was so alarming that Stiles had to sit up and look over at Isaac's face, just to make sure that he hadn't been replaced by an android or some shit. There wasn't even a hint of smarminess or a trace of snark; for literally the first time, Stiles could detect genuine emotion in his voice. 

It was weird as hell. 

“You get them too?” he asked, the tightness in his chest ebbing away with each pull of smoke he took. Isaac nodded and Stiles could see his throat working, like he was trying to swallow around a lump. 

“Yeah. Tight spaces usually set me off.” There were ashes falling between his fingers, sprinkling against Stiles' brand new sheets but that fact didn't bother him nearly as much as it should have. He actually felt kind of bad, for wanting to shove Isaac off his bed and out of his room; Stiles knew what it felt like to suddenly need somewhere quiet to be, somewhere with space where you could make sure that you were intact and okay and still breathing. He understood and the sudden feeling of kinship he felt towards Isaac was enough to, frankly, freak him the fuck out. This night was just getting weirder and weirder. 

“I used to get them a lot, after my mom died,” he said quietly, laying back down and it had been so long since he'd talked about his mom to someone that forcing the words past his mouth seemed to be an impossible task. But Isaac had revealed something super personal to him and he couldn't just leave him hanging even if, on a fundamental level, it felt so _wrong_ because when the fuck had Isaac Lahey ever cared about anything he said? 

“I'm sorry,” Isaac murmured, joint smoldering away between his fingers. When he turned his head, Stiles was struck by how watery his blue eyes were, spidered with red veins. “I really am.”

“It's fine. I was a kid when it happened.” It was definitely the first time he'd ever been so close to Isaac's face and he noticed that there was a thin line of pale scar tissue just underneath the hollow of his eye, almost hidden by the fan of his eyelashes. There was another one clinging to the line of his jaw and Stiles really wanted to reach out and trace it with his nail. 

That feeling of want was terrifying, not only because of how bizarre it was but because of how _strong_ it was. But he'd never been a man of great willpower, even while he was completely sober so he tentatively reached out, laying his finger against the white line on Isaac's jawbone. Isaac sucked in a breath and his eyes fluttered shut as Stiles slowly traced the scar with his fingertip. The joint was hardly more than a nib, good for maybe one last deep drag and as Isaac brought it back up, his thumb pressed at Stiles' mouth until he got the hint and parted his lips. And then, there was thick, warm smoke sliding down his throat and he held it inside his chest until it felt like it had seeped into every minute section of his lungs. 

When he opened his eyes again (he didn't remember closing them), Isaac was staring at him with something that looked awfully similar to desire and before he could even begin to think about the consequences, Stiles twisted his fingers into his white v-neck and yanked them together. The kiss was the furthest thing from gentle; there was definitely a clashing of teeth and when Stiles ran his tongue over Isaac's bottom lip, he was certain that he could taste blood. After only a few moments, Isaac was rolling on top of him, his long legs pinning Stiles down against the mattress. Even though the weight of his body should have been suffocating, should have been making Stiles claw his way to freedom, he arched up into it, pressing his neck into the nearly searing heat of Isaac's palm. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was well aware that he didn't really know what the fuck he was doing. He had _never_ even thought about kissing Isaac but whether it was the alcohol or the weed or simply the fact that the guy knew exactly what it was like to feel your chest caving in on your lungs, Stiles didn't really want to stop anytime soon. He threaded a hand into Isaac's hair, fingers snagging in his curls and in return, Isaac nipped at the corner of his mouth, tugging the already swollen skin between his teeth before he backed away slightly, warm breath brushing over Stiles' cheek. 

“Can I suck you off?” he asked quietly and Stiles felt like he'd choked on his own tongue. Things had just gone from zero to a hundred in ten seconds flat and Stiles felt like every coherent thought had just been wiped from his brain. 

“Uh, yeah,” he finally managed to stammer, blunt nails dragging down the back of Isaac's neck. “That is definitely a thing you could do, if you want to.” His thumb brushed over the first knob of Isaac's spine and just below it, he could feel a thick raised line of tissue, disappearing underneath the back of Isaac's shirt. Before he could map it out further, Isaac leaned back in and kissed him so thoroughly that all Stiles could do was hang on for dear life and focus on using his tongue and his lips to draw out sighs and moans from Isaac's mouth.

Stiles had no idea how long they kissed for. His limbs were heavy like lead and every movement was languid, like he was trying to move through water. His ankles were tucked around Isaac's calves and Isaac was slowly grinding down against him, like he had all the time in the goddamn world, while his mouth left bruising kisses on Stiles' lips and his neck and the junction of his shoulder and his throat. The party seemed to have quieted down substantially and Stiles half-expected Scott to pop through the door at any moment. Until that awkward moment, he had no plans of stopping but he felt like he was burning up from the inside out so he reluctantly pushed upwards until Isaac sank back onto his knees and _Jesus_ did he look nice. His hair was mussed up, the veins in his eyes had started to recede and his cheeks were a brilliant shade of red and Stiles had _no_ idea why he'd never wanted to kiss the guy before because frankly, he was fucking gorgeous. 

“It's too hot in here,” he stuttered, tearing at his shirt and flicking it over the edge of the bed. Isaac smirked down at him but it was a mere shadow of the one he plastered on his face in the outside world; it was way less obnoxious and way more genuine and rather than making Stiles want to punch him in the face, it made his cock press up against his zipper. Apparently Isaac noticed because he slid his hand down from Stiles' waist and gently dragged his palm over the bulge in his jeans. Stiles dropped his head back against the pillow, eyes falling shut, really hoping that this wasn't some really long, complex wet dream. 

“Fuck,” he groaned, fingers scratching at his sheets when Isaac repeated the action and then, he was mercifully popping open the button on his pants and dragging the zipper down. After that, there was no screwing around; once he lifted his hips up, Isaac was pulling his jeans and his boxers off, fingers skimming down his legs and he was completely naked. That should have made him feel self-conscious, should have made him want to turn off the lights at the very least but he simply couldn't be bothered to feel bad. Besides, Isaac had been the one to ask and based on how his eyes were dragging down Stiles' body and on how his tongue flicked against his swollen lips, he certainly didn't mind what he saw. 

“Oh God,” he murmured reverently, his fingers slowly skimming over Stiles' stomach, over the trail of dark hair underneath his navel, over his hipbones and his inner thighs and finally, over his cock. The light touches of his fingers were soon replaced with the warm brush of his breath and although he would deny it if asked, Stiles _definitely_ whimpered when Isaac's tongue first touched his dick. He didn't know what to do with his hands so he dropped both of them to the sheets, wringing the fabric between his fingers. 

Isaac moved slowly, took his time, such a contrast from the way he usually pushed and pushed at Stiles like he was trying to get him to snap. He lavished every inch of Stiles' cock with attention, left open-mouthed kisses along him, flicked his tongue in ways Stiles was pretty sure he'd never seen outside of porn. His fingers were constantly on the move, brushing over his balls and his hipbones, making Stiles arch off the bed even though he was trying his best to stay still. At one point, while Isaac's eyes were trained on Stiles', he reached out for his hand and tugged at it until Stiles' fingers were once again wrapped up in his curls and it was that point that he really started to move his mouth, taking him in inch by inch, tongue dragging along his heated skin. Stiles was pretty sure his sense of time was completely shot but it couldn't have been more than five minutes before he could already feel pressure building inside his body. Even if he'd gotten pretty skilled at bringing himself off, his hand was nothing when compared to the warmth of Isaac's mouth. 

“Isaac, c'mere,” he managed to pant, tugging at his hair. “Please.” Isaac pulled away, his lips slick with saliva and Stiles used the grip he still had on his curls to pull him up into another kiss while his free hand fumbled at the zipper on Isaac's dark jeans. Truthfully, he didn't know how much he trusted his ability to reciprocate once he'd come and he wasn't simply going to leave Isaac hanging so once he finally managed to get Isaac's pants and boxers down past his ass, he arched up and pressed their cocks together, the saliva from Isaac's mouth helping to slick the way. Isaac's teeth pressed into his lip again, failing to muffle the moan that fell from his lips as Stiles kept up the movement of his hips. He knew there was lube in one of his drawers, or maybe it was one of his boxes but before he could think about it further, Isaac pulled away and licked his palm before he wrapped it around both of them. It was only a few strokes later that Stiles' breath was catching in his throat and he was spilling between Isaac's fingers. He felt stupidly embarrassed because he thought that his stamina had increased at least a little bit since high school but then Isaac was gasping _Stiles!_ against his neck and his muscles were going tense and he didn't feel nearly as bad. 

There was a damp patch soaked into the front of Isaac's shirt and some cum had leaked onto the sheets so Stiles yanked them off the bed and wiped off his stomach before he passed them over to Isaac. He'd been meaning to check out the building's laundry room anyways. The party had definitely wrapped up; Stiles could still hear voices but they were fewer in number and lower in volume. Nonetheless, he didn't really want to face anybody he knew, especially since he was pretty sure the sweat on his face and his tangled hair practically screamed sex. 

“Do you have an extra shirt?” Isaac asked, dropping the ruined sheets onto the floor, eyes cast down towards the bed and he looked so much like a wounded animal that Stiles felt the rhythm of his heart skitter slightly.

“Were you going home?” Although Stiles knew that his thinking was still a little clouded due to the customary post-orgasm haze and the chemicals he consumed, kicking Isaac out of his room just seemed cruel, even if the guy had been an absolute dick in the past. Even if he went back to being a dick tomorrow, there was no reason that they couldn't have a few more hours where they didn't completely hate each other. 

“Well, I thought you'd want me to leave,” Isaac said quietly and the tone of his voice sealed Stiles' decision. He crossed the room to his dresser and pulled two pairs of pajama pants out of the top drawer, passing one pair to Isaac. 

“You can sleep here,” he said, yanking the pants onto his unsteady legs and collapsing back onto the stripped mattress. 

“Are you-”

“Isaac, I _want_ you to sleep here,” Stiles clarified, rubbing his face against his pillow. “Just grab the light, okay?” He could barely keep his eyes open and although he knew he was going to have an absolutely terrible case of morning breath in the morning, he couldn't be bothered to get up and brush his teeth. He couldn't even summon up the energy to look over his shoulder while Isaac was changing and by the time he flicked off the light, he had closed his eyes. The mattress sagged beside him and Stiles groped out with his palm until it smacked against Isaac's hip. He'd always been a tactile person, especially with Scott, but he also wanted to make sure that Isaac believed him, believed that he was welcome and wanted because Stiles had a feeling that wasn't something Isaac felt very often. 

“Stiles?” The voice came right as Stiles was on the very edge of sleep and the best response he could give was a monosyllabic grunt and a flex of his fingers on Isaac's hip. 

“You know I don't actually hate you, right?” 

Stiles couldn't even begin to process how rife with implications that sentence was. So instead of attempting to muddle through it, he simply murmured _same_ and fell asleep with his thumb brushing back and forth against Isaac's warm skin.

&. 

When he woke up in the morning, it was to a dry mouth and an empty bed. The former wasn't surprising but the latter was a little disappointing, he had to admit. Once he had finally summoned up the energy to stumble out of his bedroom, he discovered that the apartment was a mess of liquor bottles and plastic cups and the whole place smelled like very sugary alcohol. Based on the snoring that was coming from the living room, Scott had fallen asleep on the couch and when Stiles walked into the kitchen, there was a brown paper bag sitting on the table with a note attached to it. It was one line, written in slanted writing Stiles faintly recognized.

_Thanks for last night Stiles. I mean it._

There was a take-out container inside the bag, filled with pancakes and bacon from the restaurant just down the street and although Stiles was nice enough to leave Scott a pancake, he kept all the bacon for himself. 

The next time Isaac came by was a Saturday and they watched movies with Scott, sitting one on either side of him, and they fell back into their old ways. Stiles didn't like the scarf Isaac was wearing (because seriously, it was fucking _hot_ outside) and he didn't like the way Isaac was picking at a hole in the fabric of the sofa and he _really_ didn't like the way Isaac kept staring at him with wide blue eyes that didn't match the smartass words leaving his mouth. But despite all this, once Scott had fallen asleep in the middle of the second Back to the Future movie, Isaac had only to glance at him before Stiles was leaning across Scott, grabbing Isaac's hand and dragging him towards his room. 

He may have disliked the Isaac everyone else saw, the guy that was all snark and shallow charm and obnoxious winks, who constantly had to try and put his money where his mouth was. But the real Isaac on the other hand, the guy with the big blue eyes and the talented mouth who made his skin burn in the best way-

Well, Stiles was starting to think that maybe there were a few things he liked about him.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
